The Magic of Music

David Rowbotham

It was New Years Day 1886, an animated Holmes was reading excitedly from the latest edition of the Illustrated London News.

“Here it is Watson, The Metropolitan Tramroad Company have announced that they are to commence testing of their electric mechanical tramcars. These most modern of conveyances are moved along the track by means of large motors with power supplied from lead acid accumulator batteries. This is progress indeed! And they are to test them upon the route from the Marylebone Road to Regents Park which runs right past here along Baker Street. This will be a sight to see”

“Well, I think it’s a great shame Holmes, in my opinion these contraptions are the most unnatural of devices to meet in the street. The street is the proper place for living creatures, for people and horses and for horse drawn conveyances. These mechanical monsters should be confined to their own courses in the same way in which the locomotives of the railways are confined to their own tracks and not mixed in with the public pedestrian. I have recently seen one of these horseless electric cars in Westminster, it made a most curious whining and wailing noise as it proceeded along its track.”

“Ah, it would seem that they recognise your concern Watson, they do assure the News that they will only operate during daylight so as not to cause undue alarm to any who encounter the scene”

“Nevertheless, Holmes, I cannot say I share your enthusiasm for progress on this occasion, to put our future in the hands of inventors and crackpots is most foolhardy I feel.” I could see that this was an area we would not come to consensus upon, then I remembered my earlier encounter with Mrs. Hudson.

“Ah, Holmes, I nearly forgot, Mrs. Hudson gave me this for you, it was hand delivered earlier today.” I took a small envelope addressed to ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ out of my pocket and handed it to him. He examined the envelope for a full minute or more before proceeding to open it. Inside was a small visitor’s card.

“What is it, Holmes?”

“It’s… erm, it’s… it, it is nothing Watson, nothing whatsoever!” He slipped the card hurriedly into his waistcoat pocket, and proceeded to pace around the room in a most irritated fashion. He then began repeatedly taking out, reading and then re-pocketing the card for the next few hours.

Holmes paused from his pent up perambulations to pick up his violin which he then thrust most fiercely under his chin.

“My bow, Watson?”

I looked around. “I would presume that it is precisely where you left it, Holmes”

“Yes, and where was that?”

“Well, how should I know?”

“You should observe Watson, my good man, you should pay attention. It’s all in the detail”

“You mean you’ve lost it, Holmes…” I smiled.

“Ah, here it is. See, details; details!”

His bow was thrust well into the soil of the Aspidistra which grew slumberingly from its pot on the plant stand in the window. I’m sure it was doing the bow no good at all. Holmes retrieved his bow and resuming his pose he lifted the soil encrusted bow to the strings. As he postured to strike his first blow I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself against the imminent howl of protest about to erupt from his oft tortured instrument.

Silence…

I held my breath and waited…

Silence…

I opened first one eye… and then the other.

Holmes was frozen. Mid-thought. The next instant his violin was back against the wall besides the fireplace.

“On guard!” he cried, and proceeded to dance maniacally around the room, left arm dangling limply over his head like a demented ape, fencing some imaginary opponent. This went on for a full five minutes before Holmes slumped into his chair.

“Silence man! I need to think…”

Holmes did not utter another word that night, he just sat staring into the space between us, as though waiting for someone to materialise there. I took myself off to my room for an early night leaving Holmes to contemplate the meaning of his visitor’s card.

I was up early the next morning as I had patients at my surgery to attend to, but Holmes had already risen and left 221B. Clearly he had something on his mind, but I thought nothing more of it, he knew where I would be and he could send a runner to my surgery should he need to get hold of me.

I returned to 221B late that afternoon to find a note on Holmes desk ‘Watson, I have some little task which is requiring of my attention. I shall see you in a few days. S.H.’ A few quiet evenings at our lodgings would not go amiss, it would mean I could catch up on my notes and talk to my publisher about my next instalments.

I was awoken that night by the most blood curdling of animal noises coming from below my room. A sound not unlike that of foxes mating, counterpoised by a whole street of mongrel tomcats at war. It fair made the hairs stand up upon my neck. On and on it seemed to go, on and on without end. Then it ceased, just as quickly as it had started and eventually I was able to regain my sleep. The following day followed the same pattern as the previous one. Night time arrived with monotonous certainty and I had but briefly attained a deepness of sleep when once again I was brought rudely to a state of wakefulness by a most unholy row. This time it sounded as though one of the Metropolitan Tramroad Company electric cars had managed to entangle a family of cats amongst its various workings whilst traversing the length of Baker Street because there followed a most inhuman squealing and howling which I can only hope was not generated of some human source, but was indeed entirely mechanical, so extreme and excruciating was its clamour. Thankfully as with the previous night, the noises abated as quickly as they had started.

The next day there was still no sign of Holmes, although Mrs. Hudson did tell me that he had been up to our lodgings during the day and she had seen him carrying his violin and bow with a notable degree of intent. Such behaviour to me seemed somewhat unusual, that beloved instrument of his rarely being seen outside the confines of our drawing room.

Well, on the third night since the disappearance of Holmes, the intrusion of the noises occurred once again, seemingly within minutes of my head caressing my pillow, this time it was not unlike a pack of dogs serenading someone dragging their nails down a blackboard. Delightful! What was going on? I wondered…

That morning as I was leaving I bumped into Mrs, Hudson; I asked her if she had been disturbed by the noises in the night but she did not hear me at first.

“I’m sorry Dr Watson; what was that you were saying? Oh, please wait a moment, I’ve still got my ear plugs in…” She did not need to say any more, it was clear that she’d heard nothing, I resolved to follow her example in the ensuing nights and indeed that next night I was not troubled by any noise whatsoever and went off to my surgery in a much lighter frame of mind, no doubt much to the benefit of my grateful patients…

I arrived back at 221B on the evening of the 5th to find Mrs. Hudson in a most agitated state.

“Well, she marches in here as bold as you please.’I’m expected.’ She said. ‘I’ll show myself in.’ She insisted. Dr Watson, I could not stop her”

“Who, Mrs Hudson?”

“Why, that bawdy Vaudeville monologist, that’s who!”

“Oh, I see”

I shook my head, none the wiser I set off up the stairs to our lodgings to determine the identity of this mystery visitor.

“Ah, Doctor Watson, what a pleasure” The acid in her voice was burning in my ears almost before she had spoken, clearly her words did not match her feelings., neither did they match her appearance for I would say her appearance was matchless, the very pinnacle of her sex.

“The feeling is mutual, I’m sure” I smiled awkwardly, obviously I was not who she was waiting for, and yet clearly she knew of me, but I had no idea of the identity of this strange, forthright and most beautiful of women. Quite the fairest vista my eyes had feasted upon in an assuredly long time. I assume she had read my published reports of Holmes escapades, and it was clear she was not going to indulge me the intent behind her visit.

“Erm, Mr Holmes is not here at the moment” I said, fumbling for somewhere to place my hands. I clasped the back of the chair at Holmes writing desk. The young woman before me wore a delicate silver locket which hung from the finest of silver chains adorning her neck. Captivated I followed the line of the chain from her neck down to… to where the locket nestled. Suddenly realising she was watching me with intent bemusement, I drew my gaze back to her wondrously deep almond eyes and waited, hopefully not open mouthed… I closed my mouth.

“So I see, that’s alright, I shall wait. He is expecting me.” “In the meantime would you be so kind as to unlock the lid on your piano”

“Hmmm, well I do not see why not.”

I busied myself looking for the key glad of the distraction from this most distracting of attractiveness. The key would, or rather it should, be in the deeper recesses of Holmes desk drawer. It was so rare that the piano was unlocked; indeed except for the annual visit from Mr Rogersan Hammersteinway, the blind piano tuner, I don’t think its keys ever struck a note. Certainly I’d never heard it played in anger, unlike Holmes’ violin which only ever seemed to be played in anger.

“A problem Doctor?”

The visitor was right behind me as I rummaged through Holmes desk, making me feel distinctly uncomfortable and taking far more of an interest in the drawer contents than I cared for.

“No, here it is” Relieved, my fingers had at last found the small brass key which permitted access to the ivories. I unlocked the lid and raised it with a hand which shook too much to not be noticed, clearly much to the satisfaction of the visitor, as she brusquely elbowed past me to take up a position on the small stool. She ran a white gloved hand gently, caressingly, over the keys. I found I was holding my breath.

“Ah, what a delightful pianino!” She exclaimed, “I’ve not found myself seated before such an exquisite instrument in many years.” “I am surprised; I did not expect to find such a masterpiece in your humble lodgings. This is excellent and so much more than I had anticipated.”

She melted visibly. I swallowed before I spoke, “I can send a runner for Mr Holmes if you are in a hurry” I suggested. “If you can give me your name I shall get right on it”

She smiled; I had been thwarted in my attempt to learn this beautiful creature’s name.

“Ah Dr Watson, I intrigue you, truly you do not know me? Your housekeeper recognised me straight away, I am disappointed in you sir, I had expected more from such a friend and colleague of the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mrs. Hudson is not our housekeeper, she is our landlady and I apologise if my ignorance of you gives you offence. I’m sure I would remember you if our paths had crossed before.”

“It’s alright, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes had walked into the room unnoticed. I never cease to marvel at how Holmes does that. “I see you two have made one another’s acquaintance.”

“Miss. Adler, it is good to meet you at last, do you have the necessary…”

“Ah Dr. Watson here was good enough to unlock”

“You’re Adler!” “The Irene Adler, late of the Imperial Opera of Warsaw?”

“Indeed, my good Doctor, I am the late Irene Adler…” She smiled a far too knowing smile; I suspect I may have blushed.

Holmes was standing in the middle of the room, his violin held by its neck in his left hand hung limply at his side, he scratched his right ear with his bow looking deep in thought.

“Dr Watson, If you will excuse us” He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head very slightly in the direction of my room.

“I’m sorry, Holmes… Oh; yes; err, of course.”

I bowed curtly to our adorable visitor and winked at Holmes before backing into my room,

“An early night I think is in order, I’ll bid you both goodnight.”

I nodded a last bow as I turned into my room, closing the door quietly behind me. I’m not used to being dismissed by Holmes when we have a professional visit, so I can only assume that this evening was otherwise. I did not hear a single word spoken between those two unique characters alone in the Drawing room but I can tell you that they certainly made the magical music that evening. As I lay on my bed, it became clear to me what had been happening in the days since I had last seen Holmes; he had been practicing his mastery of that blessed instrument of his, and practicing hard. I could not help but hear the results of his secret endeavours as I lay there in the darkness.

I do not remember falling asleep, but sleep I did. When I arose that next morning our guest was long gone. Holmes never made mention of what transpired that night, and I respected my friend too much to ever raise the subject myself. All I know is that Holmes was never quite the same again after that meeting.